


Home

by heartsdesire456



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 14:45:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartsdesire456/pseuds/heartsdesire456
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is still unused to Sherlock being home. When he wakes up to the sounds of Sherlock having a nightmare, even his anger at Sherlock isn't enough to keep him from helping someone having a nightmare. When they're forced to face the reality of what had happened eleven months ago and what Sherlock had done to both of them, John reveals a dark secret that even Sherlock could have never guessed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry the summary is shit, but basically last night while I was trying to go to sleep my INTENSE writers block finally broke (at about 4am, I had class at 11 this morning) and I had to write this out because my writers block has been crippling. I couldn't handle giving up the opportunity to WRITE something!

John woke up to the sounds of whimpering downstairs. He checked the clock and saw it was three in the morning. He sighed and considered going back to sleep, but part of him wondered if he’d imagined Sherlock the entire last two days. It was this part of him that won out as he climbed out of bed and started downstairs. When he got to the living room, he saw Sherlock lying on the couch, tossing and turning fitfully. He sighed and shook his head before heading into the kitchen to set about making tea.

He didn’t wake Sherlock. He wasn’t sure what the etiquette for coming in on a man having a nightmare when said man was a once-best friend who just successfully managed returning from the dead after eleven months had passed since he leapt off a building right before one’s eyes. 

John had just finished the tea when he heard the couch creak and saw movement from the corner of his eye. He turned his head and saw Sherlock sitting up on the couch, staring into the fire that provided the only light in the room from its grate. John prepared two cups of tea- a first in a long time after he broke the habit of making two- and headed into the living room. He sat a cup down on the coffee table in front of Sherlock and then settled into his chair next to the fire, looking ahead at the empty chair in front of him like he usually did, though its long-absent inhabitant was visible from the corner of his eye.

“Why?” Sherlock asked hoarsely, his voice raspy from sleep and tight from lingering fear. 

John looked down at his own cup and clenched his teeth. “Because unlike some people, I have a conscience.” He sighed, feeling the weight of overwhelming unimportance crush him like it had since the moment Sherlock came back. “I know what it’s like to have nightmares and wake up alone. Nobody with the intimate understanding of nights left alone, cold, and still half-terrified from a dream that lingers could possibly ignore the sound of someone experiencing the same thing folks come to dread.”

Sherlock took the cup, clutching it in his long, thin fingers. John watched those appendages curl around the mug, taking in every new scar and a few lingering wounds that had yet to heal. He was thinner than ever, he realized as he looked at Sherlock’s wrists where they peeked out of the sleeves of his dressing gown. For all his lanky glory of their time together, Sherlock now possessed the wiry, underfed frame of someone living a hard life. He had cleaned himself up from the first time John had come face to face with him, his long, shaggy hair was cleaned of filth, though it was still very ragged, his nails trimmed and clean, not broken and mud-caked, and his skin a ghostly pallor, no longer tinged with dust and grime. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, taking a sip of the tea. 

John suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to throw something- again- at that beautiful idiot’s face. “Oh, you suddenly get some manners, eh?” he asked, shaking his head. “You can thank me for tea but it never occurred to you to pop by to tell me you were alive-“

“John-“

“No!” John snapped, glaring. “You get to listen now! Shut up for once!” he shouted and Sherlock looked absolutely startled. “You are gone for _eleven months_ \- eleven months I spent mourning my best friend- and you come back out of NOWHERE and I’m expected to treat you like a brittle little delicate flower, I end up making you tea because I’m a massive tit, and then NOW YOU HAVE THE NERVE TO GROW MANNERS?!” 

Sherlock swallowed, looking up at John with wide, pleading eyes. “John, I understand you are upset-“

“Oh God,” John laughed bitterly, then sighed, putting his tea down to put his hands over his face. He ran them over his face and looked up with a dark, sober look on his face and a calculating glimmer in his eyes. “Upset, am I?” he asked. He nodded over at the bookcase. “You think I’m upset now? Go get that box.” Sherlock gave him a confused look but slowly rose and did as he said. He came back and sat the box on the table. He opened it and found John’s gun. As fast as his eyes glanced across the box and its contents, he still looked up with a somewhat guarded expression of confusion. John sighed and turned to face him bodily. “Do you know how many times I’ve considered killing myself, Sherlock?” he asked and Sherlock’s eyes widened, his mouth tightening into a line.

“John-“

John cut him off. “When I was first sent home from Afghanistan, I thought life would never be alright again.” He nodded at the gun. “Four nights in a row I took out my gun, looked at it, then put it back. Every day I thought ‘maybe tomorrow I’ll do it, but just in case today is better, I’ll wait.’ The fifth day I met you and within hours I was grateful I waited because it was something new and I figured I’d wait a while longer.” He chuckled weakly. “I never looked back after that first night knowing you.” He looked over at the gun, tracing Sherlock’s gaze as it traveled from the gun to John’s face. “And then one day you were gone suddenly and my life wasn’t just bleak and empty as before, it was poisoned by loss. Grief. Pain I had never known was possible,” he said clearly, his voice ringing a stark and relentless bark into the night. “Eleven times.” He looked down at the gun. “Every month since I watched my best friend die- take his own life after _lying_ to me- I take my gun out and clean it. Every time I think ‘maybe tonight I will end it all finally’. I clean it, put a single bullet in the magazine, load the gun, chamber the round, and then flip off the safety.” He reached out and picked up the unloaded gun, looking at it in his hand, the metal cold in contrast to his warm skin. “Some nights I’d hold it to my temple. Other nights I’d put it in my mouth. I’d fantasize about squeezing the trigger and making it all stop. All the pain, all the memories.” He flipped the safety and cocked the gun as if there was a bullet in the empty chamber, pulling the trigger to see Sherlock flinch almost violently at the empty click sounding from the firing mechanism as it failed to find a bullet. “Every time I’d chicken out. I’d think ‘maybe tomorrow something good will happen’. I’d find ways to trick myself into thinking I may not want to miss something. Maybe tomorrow I’ll meet someone else who will change my life. Someone else who will consume me and set up shop in my very core the way he did.” John unloaded the empty magazine and put the gun back in the box. “But that was never really going to happen twice in one lifetime, was it?”

Sherlock shuddered violently, lips white and eyes glistening. “Why are you doing this?” he whispered in a frail, fragile voice, eyes searching John.

John sighed and shook his head. “Because you cannot possibly understand-“

“ _I cannot possibly understand_?!” Sherlock spat acerbically. “You have no idea what I went through-“

John’s cheeks flushed with anger. “What YOU went through?! I WATCHED MY BLOODY BEST FRIEND KILL HIMSELF IN FRONT OF ME! I fucking saw my best friend’s head smashed in, his blood on the pavement, felt his limp, lifeless hand in mine, went to his fucking _funeral_ , but oh of COURSE I have no idea what _you_ suffered-“

Sherlock slammed his fist on the table, eyes wild and tearful, lips curled bitterly as he hissed, “I HAD TO WATCH THE CENTER OF MY WORLD CRUMBLE!” he shouted loudly and without restraint. His chest heaved as he spoke. “I had to convince the only person who ever trusted me that everything I was to him was a lie. I had to watch my _everything_ shatter into a million pieces.” His lip quivered and he blinked hard, throat bobbing as tears broke free of the prison of his lashes. “I stood in the trees and was made to witness the man who never backed down from anything, the man who gave up everything for me, the _man I love_ , the strongest, bravest person I’ve ever met _pleading for reality to bend itself and undo what I had done_.” Sherlock let out a choked sound and shook his head vehemently as tears continued to tumble down, chasing each other in rivulets down his cheeks. “Don’t you _dare_ say I don’t understand perfectly well what it is to suffer.”

John and Sherlock stared for the longest, neither speaking as John’s calm yet frigid demeanor displayed his inner rage and Sherlock’s tearful eyes and heaving chest bore the hallmarks of a man at the edge. John clenched his jaw and looked down, sitting straight and leaning back, hands clasping in his lap as he watched his fingers. “You know Sherlock, the thing about love is that you want nothing more than for someone to be happy. To love someone is to care about their happiness above all else.” He raised an eyebrow and tilted his head slightly as a bitter smile tainted his lips. “Forgive me if I have trouble believing you have the slightest idea of ‘love’-“

Sherlock made a derisive snort. “To love someone is to care about their wellbeing above all else. Happiness is an emotion, emotions are fleeting, the wellbeing of the person you place above all else is the hallmark of love, John-“

John scoffed. “Oh yes because it was terribly conducive to my wellbeing to suffer the doubt in everything I’d lived through all because I had to bear my best friend’s suicide note of lies and watch him die because you’re a selfish bastard-“

“I SACRIFICED EVERYTHING TO PROTECT YOU!” Sherlock snapped, a flush high in his cheeks. “I understand what you have been through is terrible, I understand what I did to you was horrible, and I’m _sorry_ , I’ve said it a thousand times and I’ll continue until I can no longer speak, but the fact of it is that you would have been killed!” He shook his head. “I am a selfish, arrogant, conceited person. I know that. I enjoy it even. You _know_ what it means that I sacrificed everything I had to keep you safe, John. So yes, I was _selfish_ ,” Sherlock allowed. “I was selfish because it was my life and reputation or _you_ and losing you was not an option.” Sherlock looked away, bottom lip trembling. “I don’t care that it was selfish because my only other option was a life without you and I couldn’t imagine life being worth living without you,” he whispered.

John swallowed hard, staring at Sherlock incredulously. His voice cracked when he spoke. “Did it never occur to you that I couldn’t imagine living without you?”

Sherlock smiled sadly, staring into the fire that was reflected in the tears swimming in his eyes. “You have many friends, John. A job. A life. I had nothing but you.” He looked up, biting his bottom lip as his eyes met John’s. “I am sorry, but I cannot and will not regret what I did.” He swallowed hard, sniffling slightly. “The world without John Watson would be empty. I, however, was of very little use.”

John shook his head, sighing heavily. “Did it never occur to you that people do actually care about you-“

“What would you have had me do?!” Sherlock said helplessly, eyes wide as he looked at John. “What would you have wanted me to do? Let you die? Let Lestrade die? Mrs. Hudson? Tell me, John, what else could I have done?!-“

“You could’ve still revealed yourself afterwards,” John sighed. “You could’ve let me know, if nothing else, that the person who mattered most in my life wasn’t _dead_ , Sherlock. That’s what.” John stood silently and left the room, headed back up to his room.

Sherlock looked at the empty mug beside John’s chair and then stood abruptly, silently padding out onto the landing and up the stairs after John. When he got to his room, he didn’t knock. Instead, he nudged the door open. He stood in the doorway silently, looking in only to see John sitting on the side of the bed, elbows on his knees and head in his hands as he sat, silhouetted by the moonlight through his window. John looked up when he heard Sherlock, watching him silently. Sherlock took a strangled breath and wordlessly padded across the room, dropping to his knees with a thud in front of John, who watched him guardedly. Sherlock closed his eyes and laid his head on John’s lap, curling his hands around the backs of his calves.

“Please don’t hate me,” he whispered in a tiny, weak, almost childlike voice. He rubbed his face against the linen of John’s sleep pants and sniffled as tears welled in his eyes. “I’m so sorry, John.”

John sighed heavily, slumping some, one hand falling to rest on Sherlock’s head. He slid his fingers into Sherlock’s messy curls and smiled sadly. “I can’t hate you, Sherlock,” he admitted with a weak chuckle. “I just… what you did was…” He trailed off and Sherlock sniffled, wiggling his head back against John’s hand with an inadvertent whine.

“A bit not good?” Sherlock asked and John barked out a half-bitter, half-amused laugh.

“A _ton_ not good, more like,” he said, smiling down at Sherlock. He curled his arms around Sherlock, parting his knees so that he could hug Sherlock to his middle.

Sherlock sighed and shifted, curling his arms around John’s hips, pressing his face into his shirt as he clung to him. “Please don’t leave, I only did what I did because I love you, John,” he whispered and John’s heart skipped a beat at how tiny and helpless Sherlock sounded. Sherlock Holmes should never sound helpless. 

John kissed the top of his head, fisting one hand in the back of Sherlock’s dressing gown and the other in his hair. “I’m not leaving you, Sherlock. I’m angry still. I’m upset. May be for a while,” he said, and Sherlock nodded against his shirt, sitting back on his heels with a pout of resignation on his face as he looked down at the floor.

“I understand,” Sherlock said in a humble little whisper.

John reached out and cupped Sherlock’s face in his hand, smiling weakly as a warm wave of affection swept over him at something as simple as Sherlock leaning into his touch, seeking the gentleness and caring John could imagine Sherlock hadn’t experienced in a very long time. “I missed you,” he whispered feebly. 

Sherlock’s eyes shot open and John was startled by the strangled whimper that wrested free from Sherlock’s throat before his face crumpled. “You have no idea how much I missed you, John,” he choked out, putting his face in his hands as he fought tears. “I just wanted to come _home_ ,” he whispered, his voice a pained hiss. He looked up at John with wide, red-ringed eyes. “I cannot explain in words how terrible the past year was, John. Please don’t make me go away again,” he said and John shushed him, shaking his head as he reached out and pulled Sherlock into a hug again.

“Enough of that,” he said, kissing the crown of his head. “You’re home now and that’s what matters, I guess.” He poked his shoulder. “Just _never_ do that again no matter what,” he said and Sherlock let out a small laugh against John’s chest.

“Alright, next time I’ll just let the bad men get you-“

John let out a surprised but honest laugh. “Oh shut up, you,” he said, pushing Sherlock back some. “That is not funny,” he said in a mock serious voice and Sherlock gave him an amused smirk.

“It was a bit funny,” he argued and John rolled his eyes. “You know you agree-“ John silenced Sherlock the best way he knew how.

John closed the gap between them and pressed a tender, affectionate kiss to Sherlock’s lips, his fingers cupping Sherlock’s jaw as he did so. Sherlock went stark still, making an adorable squeak as he floundered some about what to do. He held incredibly still, not resisting but not really able to reciprocate at all. John pulled back and raised an eyebrow at the wide eyed, startled way that Sherlock sat back on his heels and flushed, hands fidgeting with his dressing gown and hair. John raised an eyebrow and Sherlock cleared his throat, waving a hand absently, making gestures that made no sense. “That- er- what you did, that thing was-“ He swallowed hard and looked down at the floor. “That is to say- er- good, it’s a good thing,” he finished lamely, cringing at his own faint rambling.

John chucked in amusement. “Was I reading that wrong? I kind of thought that’s where this was going,” he said, gesturing between them. “The whole ‘I love you, John’ thing-“

“No!” Sherlock said quickly, then made a face. “I mean, yes. Yes that is where I was going, exactly, that yes.” He nodded, biting his bottom lip with a somewhat desperate expression, almost as if pleading for John to stop him.

John raised an eyebrow. “You did understand that ‘center of my world’ thing meant me too, right?” he asked and Sherlock gave him a hopeful look. John just rolled his eyes. “Oh for the love of-“ He stopped and shook his head, laughing as he pulled Sherlock in by his lapels and kissed him again, sighing when Sherlock reciprocated, though it was still just as chaste as before. Sherlock sighed happily when the kiss broke, hands curled around John’s elbows. “You are an idiot,” John said affectionately, curling his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck to lean their heads together.

Sherlock opened his eyes, those deep gray pools full of hope. “I am so sorry for what I put you though, John,” he said and John smiled bitterly.

“I won’t say it’s alright, Sherlock,” he said honestly, not letting down. “But I guess… in the end I understand why.”

Sherlock reached up and touched John’s cheek. “I will do whatever is within my power to make it right between us, John. You have to know that.”

John slumped some, sighing heavily. “Right now, Sherlock, I honestly just want to go to sleep again.” He stood up and Sherlock stood as well, nodding as he stepped back and let John climb back into his bed.

“Right. Of course,” Sherlock said, then turned awkwardly, shuffling somewhat on his way to the door. “Goodnight, John,” he said and John sighed.

“C’mere you idiot,” he said and Sherlock stopped, turning with a frown. John shot him a pointed glare and nodded at the empty spot beside him. “Like hell I’m letting you run off and sit up all night thinking,” he said pointedly.

Sherlock slowly walked back towards the bed, looking somewhat confused and suspicious. “Why?” he asked, his expression guarded.

John just rolled his eyes and reached out to grab Sherlock’s hand, yanking until he stumbled and landed half on the bed, eyes wide in surprised. “Because I can make sure you sleep if I can watch you,” he half-threatened, smiling in satisfaction when Sherlock obeyed and crawled into bed properly, awkwardly plucking at the covers as he gingerly covered himself up. John just groaned and grabbed Sherlock around the waist, hauling him into his side, bodily arranging Sherlock’s long limbs until Sherlock was curled along his side with his head on John’s chest. “Jesus you are nothing but arms and legs, you tall bastard,” he said with an affectionate smile.

Sherlock gave him a tentative smile, looking up through his bangs at John’s face “This is… alright?” he asked and John sighed dramatically, letting his head fall back.

“Nothing can ever be simple with you, huh?” he asked, giving him a smile when he looked back to let him know he was teasing. “Just shut up and go to sleep, Sherlock. You can panic about cuddling in the morning, for now just get some rest. You need it,” he said, curling his strong arms around Sherlock’s frail body. He stroked a hand down Sherlock’s side, cringing when he felt all of his ribs. “After I’m convinced you’re rested up, I’m feeding you and you do not get the option of skipping meals for a long time, Sherlock,” he said sternly.

Sherlock let out a pleased little sigh and closed his eyes as he sank into the warmth of being in _John’s_ arms. He wiggled some, winding one long leg around John’s leg. “This is a good thing,” he mumbled matter-of-factly, earning a small laugh from John that ruffled his hair.

“Just hush, love. I’ve got you.” John held him and smiled when he felt Sherlock’s cold limbs beginning to warm. “You’re home now.”

Sherlock swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat and nodded, eyes falling shut as he suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired. “Thank you, John,” he whispered before sleep swallowed him.

John bit his lip as his eyes suddenly began to sting. He clung to Sherlock and crushed his eyes shut, smiling into his hair. “No, thank _you_ , Sherlock.” It finally sunk in, with Sherlock in his arms, that his miracle had come true. 

His best friend had come home to him after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it and it wasn't too feely!


End file.
